


sustenance

by systemscheck



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Exhibitionism, Human POV, Lactation Kink, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:07:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21858799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/systemscheck/pseuds/systemscheck
Summary: Being part of a species where everyone lactates has several distinct advantages. Hungry? Suckle your bro. Bored? Play with your tits. Evolution is truly the most beautiful thing.
Relationships: Jazz/Prowl
Comments: 10
Kudos: 65





	sustenance

**Author's Note:**

> You saw the tags, read the summary and still clicked on this. It's on you now, and I absolve myself of all responsibility for making you think 'them robots got boobies hur hur'. 
> 
> Warning for borderline xeno.

Hound returns with the news that everyone has been dreading.

Following the landslide that sent them plummeting a few hundred feet, they are hopelessly off-course. Even if they could make their way back along the path, their original route has been completely blocked by mud and fallen vegetation. The only way forward will be through miles and miles of dense rainforest. Optimus lets the Autobots grumble about that for exactly four minutes before he makes everyone get up and start bushwacking.

In this terrain, Spike’s size lends him an edge. He can scramble up rocky slopes and duck low-hanging vines with ease, while the Autobots have to tread carefully. Although they could simply smash their way through the undergrowth, Optimus says that wanton destruction is more Decepticon-style. It’s slow going, made even more difficult by unpredictable weather. Rain drizzles down intermittently. Autobots curse as they lose their grip on the slippery ground, revealing a fascinating depth to their vocabulary that Spike is in no mood to appreciate. He’s exhausted, with shallow cuts over his arms and legs.

Just ahead, Mirage straight-up topples into the dirt.

Spike hurries over. His first instinct is to assume the worst, but Mirage’s optics flicker online when he pounds his fists on the Autobot’s chassis.

“Cease,” Mirage orders, and Spike slumps against his side in relief.

The other Autobots gather around. First Aid kneels and examines Mirage.

“He’s fine, but I checked his fuel gauge and he’s nearly running on empty.”

Optimus slumps. First Aid pats his hand. “Why not call for a break, Prime,” he asks. Everyone nods tiredly. Conveniently, Mirage fell in an area where the ground is mostly level, a clearing of sorts.

Ironhide makes his way over. “I got this,” he says, and hauls Mirage to his feet. Spike trots after them because he feels some kind of responsibility towards Mirage, as a first responder of sorts, and maybe because he doesn’t have anything better to do.

Ironhide sits cross-legged, Mirage settling opposite him. There’s the familiar sound of transformation but when the noise grinds to a halt, Ironhide hasn’t turned into his vehicle mode to give Mirage a ride as Spike had been expecting.

The wide pane of Ironhide’s chest has simply folded away to reveal two large spherical things, which cannot possibly be what Spike immediately thinks they are, except he is correct because Mirage leans in and closes his mouth around one of the little protrusions that Spike refuses to recognise as a teat. Spike can’t look away as Mirage’s throat cables work up and down. The rest of the bots are paying zero attention to this scene. They’re merely sitting on rocks or chatting in low voices, glad to be taking a rest from the gruelling journey.

Birdsong and the shriek of cicadas fade away while Spike imagines he can hear the pump and slosh of liquid. Mirage wipes at his chin. He doesn’t say anything, only giving Ironhide a small nod before walking away. Ironhide groans softly and rotates his shoulder joints. There’s a tiny, shining drop of pink trembling on the tip of his _thing_. It splashes onto the ground when Ironhide stands up and closes up his chestplates. Then the buoyant, bulbous breasts are finally removed from view and Spike can start breathing again.

Ironhide abruptly catches his eye. “How ya holding up, Spike,” he bellows.

Spike doesn’t trust his voice. He gives Ironhide a weak thumbs-up. The big bot smiles like Spike hadn’t been ogling him seconds ago.

Everyone’s in a much better mood when they start hiking again, and to Spike’s relief nobody needs another snack break. When they get back to base Spike feels like he could lay down and nap for a thousand years. At the same time he’s too disturbed to sleep. He forces himself to go to the control room where the nearest human is located.

“Dude, you stink!” Chip inches his chair backwards.

“Well, I was trekking inside a jungle for an entire goddamn day. There wasn’t any rest stops located in the middle of nowhere,” Spike says. “Just, ignore the sweat and listen: I’m not messing with you. The Autobots have, uh, something that looks a hell lot like boobs, and they feed each other with them!”

Chip tilts his head consideringly. “You should go home to rest,” he finally replies. “Sunstroke bad enough to induce hallucinations may require hospitalisation.”

Spike realises that the twigs caught in his hair and dirty clothes don’t exactly give him the appearance of a sane, well-adjusted man. He tries anyway.

“I saw it. Them. Ironhide is like the robot equivalent of a DD.”

“That’s oddly specific,” Chip says judgmentally.

“I have sisters!”

Chip adjusts his spectacles. Despite being seated he still manages to convey the impression that he’s looking down at Spike.

“What are you planning on doing with this information?” he finally asks.

Spike blinks.

“These are our friends,” Chip says quietly. “There’s no need to let the wider world know about certain...anatomical quirks. You seem to be describing a benign feature, something that can’t possibly be weaponised against humanity.”

Spike’s mouth opens in outrage. “I’m not gonna rat them out, I’m an American!”

Chip levels a steady look at him.

“Forget about this,” he tells Spike.

It’s easier said than done, and Ironhide picks up on Spike’s discomfort soon enough. He confronts Spike in a hallway some weeks after the disastrous mission and kneels down, blocking Spike from going where he was headed.

“Uh, hi there,” Spike says after he realises that Ironhide won’t budge. “What’s up?”

Ironhide hesitates, then asks, “Have I committed any offence against you, Spike? You have been reluctant to interact, and turned down all offers to join game night when I was the one asking.”

His voice is so earnest. There’s no good way to apologise when in truth Spike has been unable to see Ironhide without a vivid memory of those large breasts flashing through his mind. Spike wishes he can flee again but this isn’t a problem he can run away from.

Chip comes trundling round the corner.

“Is there an issue,” he asks.

“No,” Spike says immediately. Ironhide frowns. “Yes. It’s, you know.”

An impenetrable look flits over Chip’s face.

“Spike is embarrassed about seeing something he thought should be hidden,” Chip says bluntly. “He saw you feeding someone—I don’t know what you call it—and was surprised, that’s all.”

Ironhide considers that for a moment.

“I’ll be sure to warn Spike if it becomes necessary to siphon fuel again,” he says seriously.

Spike holds up his hands. “Uh, yeah. Sorry for being weird.”

Ironhide beams.

And that should be the end of the whole thing, as far as Spike should be concerned, but for some reason a few Autobots take this as an opportunity to ask him about human cultural norms they were apparently too polite to question previously. Like, why men and children are allowed to remove clothing from the upper halves of their bodies at the beach or pool, while women who do so are perceived negatively.

“There isn’t a significant phenotypical difference between ‘female-presenting nipples’ and the structures present on your own torso,” Wheeljack points out in tones of logic and reason.

Spike tells Wheeljack he has a headache.

He goes down a corridor leading to a disused section of the base where no-one is liable to interrogate him, wishing that organized society can just go up in flames already because it’s mortifyingly stupid. The Autobots don’t see anything strange or special about siphoning. Ironhide had explained that it’s a survival tactic on par with sharing coolant, something they do in difficult situations. He suddenly feels ashamed by how humans have all sorts of silly taboos about a very basic life-giving function.

Spike sinks to his knees inside a deserted room. More precisely, a room he thought was deserted until someone very clearly says, “Who’s here?”

Spike scrambles over to where the mech is. “Me,” he says, and just stops there when he sees that Jazz is there, sitting next to Prowl, and Prowl’s tits are out. They’re porcelain white with a tinge of blue, which is darkest around the nubs jutting out from the centre. They sway when Prowl leans forward to frown at Spike.

“Go away, aren’t you allergic?”

“Hush,” Jazz says, his visor glinting with mischief. “Prime only said that we aren’t supposed to siphon around humans. Conducting maintenance should be fine.”

Spike’s sneakers squeak on the tiled floor.

“I, I won’t bother you guys,” he says, turning to leave, but Jazz bends down and holds him by the shoulder. “You’re curious, aren’t you, and people fear what they do not know.” Jazz sets him on a table running along the edge of the room, presumably to give him a better view.

“I know about breasts,” Spike blurts out. He doesn’t know why it comes out so defensive.

“Oh, these aren’t breasts,” Jazz says, reaching out to grasp at one of the swollen mounds hanging from Prowl’s chest and squeezing lightly. “What’s under Prowl’s hood, pal, is a nice set of fuel dispensers.”

Jazz’s face may be wider than the entirety of Spike’s arm span but there’s no mistaking the glee in his expression. Belatedly, Spike remembers a conversation where the Autobots reminisced about their occupations before the war. Jazz had been a cultural investigator. Obviously, he still possesses the skillset and curiosity to learn about other ways of life. It doesn’t take long to make the logical leap that Jazz has found out about human sexual practices. All this time, Jazz has been seeing right through him. He knows exactly how their so-called dispensers appear to Spike’s filthy little primate brain.

Spike swallows painfully. He isn’t hard enough to be visibly aroused, but it’s incredibly uncomfortable when a giant alien death machine is regarding you with a lascivious grin. At least none of them are offended, right? To Jazz’s side, Prowl is regarding the proceedings with mild boredom.

“Is this going to take much longer? I find this temperature range to be on the low end of my operating tolerance.”

Oh, good. Spike opens his mouth to excuse himself from this, uh, diplomatic exercise, but he freezes mid-step at the sight of Jazz using both hands to cup Prowl’s dispensers. Jazz’s thumbs rub slow circles in the soft rubbery material—protoform, that’s the name for it.

“Prowl, lemme warm you up okay? We’re doing something important here, contributin’ to mutual understanding between ourselves and the dominant species of this planet. Back me up on this, Spike. Tell Prowl that we’re building intergalactic harmony one step at a time.”

“The human has become catatonic,” Prowl remarks.

Spike unsticks his brain from the fog that it sinks into whenever he thinks about hot girls and apparently now, robot boobs for too long. “I’m good,” he manages. “So, you’re doing maintenance now? What’s it like?”

Jazz holds up a long, thin hose. He pinches it with his other hand, demonstrating the flexibility. “We’re sluicing out the fuel ducts today.”

Bringing the end of the hose to Prowl’s dispenser, Jazz delicately inserts it into the tiny opening. Prowl looks away.

“Does that hurt,” Spike whispers. Jazz doesn’t waver as he threads the hose further in.

“Not really,” Jazz says. “I mean, it could be if you aren’t careful, but I’m always careful. Right, Prowler?”

Prowl’s optics are shuttered. “Intense,” he says. “It feels very intense.”

Prowl shifts his weight a little. After a certain point Jazz stops moving the hose, and then withdraws it with the same amount of caution.

“Flushing the nozzles now,” Jazz mutters, and kneads at Prowl’s protoform until thin streams of cloudy liquid gush out. It swirls into the drain that Spike only notices now.

  
“Jazz—” Prowl starts, pushing away at his hands, but it’s too late. Fuel spurts from Prowl’s nozzles. Jazz swipes a thumb underside and licks it.

“Quality control,” Jazz says. Prowl scowls at him. Without ceremony he initiates the transformation sequence and stalks off.

Jazz holds out a hand to help Spike down. “Don’t mention this to Prime,” he says.

Spike smirks. Why should he? It’s a matter of sustenance.


End file.
